send off the cheques now.

He took from a locked drawer his private cheque-book and turned the
stubs thoughtfully. He had had that cheque-book for a good many years.
He used to give away a tenth of his income. His father before him used
to do that. He remembered, with a smile, how large the sums used to seem
to him. He turned back the stubs only to see how small a tenth used to
be. He no longer gave a tenth or a twentieth or even a--he had no
difficulty in deciding the exact percentage he gave; for whenever he
thought now of the sum he was worth, the figures themselves, in
clean-cut lines, popped before his eyes. It was very curious. He could
actually see them in his own handwriting. He rubbed his eyes, and the
figures disappeared.

Well, he gave a good deal, anyhow--a good deal more than most men, he
reflected. He looked at the later stubs and was gratified to find how
large the amounts were,--they showed how rich he was,--and what a
diversified list of charities he contributed to: hospitals, seminaries,
asylums, churches, soup-kitchens, training schools of one kind or
another. The stubs all bore the names of those through whom he
contributed--they were mostly fashionable women of his acquaintance, who
either for diversion or from real charity were interested in these
institutions.

Mrs. Wright's name appeared oftenest. Mrs. Wright was a woman of fortune
and very prominent, he reflected, but she was really kind; she was just
a crank, and, somehow, she appeared really to believe in him. Her
husband, Livingstone did not like: a cold, selfish man, who cared for
nothing but money-making and his own family.